


Father Figure

by BleakCinema



Series: Joyeux Noel [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Body Image, Boys In Love, M/M, Old Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:06:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9281513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleakCinema/pseuds/BleakCinema
Summary: "Mouth twitching in a sheepish moue, Jesse grabbed a handful of his ‘fatherly figure’ and gave it a little shake, 'You sure this is still somethin’ you treasure, darlin’?'"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daximed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daximed/gifts).



One of the few good parts of getting on in years and slowly weaning off of field work was how much easier it had gotten to finagle time off, especially holidays.

 

Having so many newer, younger bucks operating in Overwatch these days was a blessing and a curse, McCree reckoned.  On the one hand, it meant that he could pull seniority in order to secure an extended vacation period for he and his husband.  Very few folks had the clout or the will to deny him a week with his long-time sweetheart in a private accommodation in the Rockies.  On the other hand, the new influx of young’uns sure went a long way towards making a fella really feel his age.  It was a sting McCree felt more and more keenly as the years went on.  the kids got leaner and meaner, and he just got...soft.

 

For about the fifth time that hour, McCree caught himself looking up from the battered old Louis L’amour he was working his way through, surreptitiously stealing glances at himself in one of the apartment’s picture windows.  The light outside had faded enough that he could no longer distract himself with the rolling vistas beyond.  The glow from the merrily burning fireplace flickered across the glass, illuminating the room and making the window into an exceedingly unfortunate mirror.  It gave the aging cowboy a panoramic view of himself where he slouched in an almost comically overstuffed armchair.

 

Grudgingly, he took it all in like watching a train wreck, unsettled by what he was seeing but unable to look away.    

 

His rugged features had become moreso as the years marched on, creased by more than the sun and the wind these days.  He had deep laugh lines pitted like dry riverbeds at the corners of his eyes and creasing the dips near his mouth.  Stray freckles had cropped up all over his tanned skin, each little mark the same colour as his coffee-hull eyes.  The scruff of his beard was liberally streaked with a silver that never quite managed to look as dignified as his lover’s marked mane.  He’d gone more of a ditchwater gray in his own opinion, his deep brunette fading out in patches that reminded him of a faithful old hound he’d had in his youth.  Some of those deep lines tweaked as he pulled his mouth to the side in distaste as his eyes continued downward.

 

McCree sighed mulishly as he regarded his midsection where it was neatly tucked away under a protective layer of what Hanzo had claimed was the ugliest sweater he’d ever laid eyes on.  Where once his waist had nipped in neatly, the flat muscles of yesteryear had been replaced ever so slowly with a fledgeling roll of burgeoning softness.  There was padding on his hips where once there had only been a feral coyote leanness, signs of a beast long tamed and growing complacent.  Churlish at his own domestication, Jesse prodded meanly at the paternal swell where it lurked under garnet and gold yarn festooned with guns and wreaths and his ever-prevalent ‘BAMF’ insignia.  He gave a grunt of displeasure when the flesh gave way under his finger, springing back when he pulled away to thump back into his chair.

 

Outside, the world kept on turning, uncaring of his displeasure.  The moon still rose and the snow still fell and the sand in his hourglass kept ticking away.

 

McCree supposed he was grateful in a way, though the bitterness was occasionally hard to swallow.  The leeching of his body’s hardness was as much a sign of enduring peace in the world as it was anything else.  The hardscrabble days of hiding out and having little and hanging on by a thread were behind them.  The world was moving on, leaving behind the dark age of the Second Omnic Crisis and all the suffering that came with it.  What need had the world of McCree’s sleep, sanity, health, and body in a time of serenity?  So yes, he was grateful for that much, he supposed, but another part of his mind never stopped whispering of glories long past and the alluring siren song of renegade wandering.

 

His mind wandered dusty trails of old, drifting off in reverie when he got too tired of perusing his own form gone to seed.

 

He didn’t hear the cat-soft footfalls until a pair of powerful arms that had never lost their strength draped over his shoulders from behind his chair.

 

The soft scent of masculine musk and old wood that his darling inexplicably carried with him at all times kept him from startling too bad, his velvet deep voice a smoky rumble in Jesse’s ear, “I smelled smoke.  It carried the distinct aroma that comes when you think too hard.”

 

“Damn sugar, those teeth of  your ever gonna go dull?” Jesse crooned, reaching back to tug affectionately at Hanzo’s hand.

 

He pulled him around so he could get a good look at the archer who had yet, miraculously, to grow sick of him even after a good 15 years.  He’d aged with considerably more grace in McCree’s humble opinion.  The silver at his temples had spread slowly through his hair like creeping frost over still water, gradual and even.  He wore it down today, the drape of it falling over the yawning neckline of the cowl-neck sweater he had appropriated for the colder climes of Colorado.  His tawny skin was as taut as they day they had met all that time ago when McCree lazily traced the rough pad of his thumb in circles over the crest of a hip, smooth save for the storytelling scars that mapped his form at intervals.  His smile was wry and smug, razor-edged and playful.  In some ways, Hanzo had only gotten younger while his husband creaked into the sunset, finally experiencing the freedom of a childhood he’d never been allowed to have.

 

His voice was pitched low, a pleased rumble in his chest, “Not with you around to keep them sharp.”

 

McCree never begrudged Hanzo the regal way he bore his years, never resented the trimness of his waist or the fine dip of his lean spine.  As much as he bridled at his own clumsy descent into his golden years, he could never hold it against his archer for stubbornly resisting the rigors of age.  He only wondered how such a majestic creature fit with him, how the ragged edges of their lives somehow fit together.

 

He thrilled inside when his efforts to pull Hanzo into his lap were met with no resistance, his lover folding gently down.

 

The dragon pinned him with an all-knowing stare that penetrated down to his marrow, “Now then,” the archer’s tone was imperious, “What are you wasting our vacation time obsessing over?”

 

The cowboy couldn’t tear his eyes away from the gorgeous (moody) dragon in his lap long enough to dare entertain his reflection in the window again.  Instead, he settled for pinching the crease of Hanzo’s hip, relishing the barely-there jump and growl his efforts earned him.  Making insincere little sounds of apology, he reached around to rub lazy, deep circles into the small of his husband’s back.  He listened as the displeased rumbling faded into reticent, pleased chuffs.  He was an old dog, sure, but who needed new tricks when you had one this handy already hiding up your sleeve?

 

Knowing he could only put Hanzo off with his schoolboy antics for so long, he finally relented, voice gruff, “Just wonderin’ when I got so damned old, is all.”

 

“You are 52,” his husband informed him crisply.

 

“Got fat too,” McCree shot back.

 

Hanzo countered deftly, “A lamentable addiction to those Moon Pies you love so much and cheap whiskey.”

 

“Hey now,” Jesse began, lifting up his robotic hand to wag a finger warningly at his sweetheart in defense of his dietary habits.

 

The proud Shimada dragon cut over him as if he had never spoken, smooth and unstoppable as the river, “I am also aware that failed romantic interludes can have prolonged effects on one’s physique.”

 

The old cowboy felt a stab of momentary panic at the implication, his head drawing back sharply so he could look good and hard into Hanzo’s unwavering, sibilant gaze, “The hell’re you gettin’ at?”

 

“Death,” the archer said primly while sweeping his hands up either side of his mate’s face, burying strong fingers into the bristle of his beard to hold him steady, “You stopped courting her long ago.”

 

McCree felt the cold bite of winter-kissed metal against the patch of skin where Hanzo’s wedding ring rested.

 

“A fact for which I am infinitely grateful,” the elder Shimada purred, accent never dulled by tide or time, “My kind, we are loathe to share our treasures for very long.”

Mouth twitching in a sheepish moue, Jesse grabbed a handful of his ‘fatherly figure’ and gave it a little shake, “You sure this is still somethin’ you treasure, darlin’?”

 

The warm weight in his lap shifted, trained muscle and contained ferocity all re-settling down almost immediately over his crotch (which, by the way, was only too happy to take part in the proceedings).  A warm mouth full of pearly teeth leaned in close to his ear, both sides of his barrel chest boxed in by arms strong enough to crush his ribs.  He had ever right to fear, but there wasn’t even an inkling of concern in his heart, only a rapidly rising arousal that no one but his sweetheart had ever kindled so fast and unwaveringly.  

 

Those clever teeth nipped at the vulnerable shell of his ear, “Jesse McCree.  If it takes all night, I will show you all the ways I treasure you.”

 

Feeling his usual puckish good spirits enlivened, the gunslinger turned his head to steal a kiss, “Shoot, sugar...I’m kinda hopin’ it does.”

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Notes

\- Hello again, readers! This fic is a gift for my longtime Overwatch friend, Daximed.  They made no specific requests, but I know that McHanzo, Dad Bod McCree, and fluff jingles their jangles.  

 

\- For this fic, Hanzo is 53 and McCree is 52.

 

\- There aren't too many special notes on this one.  I'm still trying to get back into the groove of Guardian Angel for my loyal readers (you are the most patient people, I swear).  I'll likely finish all my Christmas present fics and pray that my inspiration is back online by then.

 

\- As with every set of notes, I offer sincere appreciation to all my readers, both silent and vocal.  I still hope I bring you enjoyment.  2016 was a dark year, but let's make 2017 a brighter one.  You all have it in your.  Keep the Watch.


End file.
